A Different Light (12 page)

The runners froze in place.. "Get out!" They understood the tone if not the words. They began to back away. Jimson helped Ysao lean against the wall. He pushed the door all the way open. The room behind it was small and square, and also lit through skylights. Ysao hopped inside and lowered himself down. Russell brought his burden inside. "Does that door have a bolt?" Jimson slid it home. Russell knelt next to Ysao. "Thank the luck that I threw a medikit into my pack."

He sprayed his hands with antiseptic, and pulled a long-handled knife from the kit. Slitting the fabric carefully, he turned the pieces of suit back from the leg.

"I might as well be on an X-team," Ysao grumbled. He scowled at the leg. A wooden shaft was firmly stuck through it. Blood had started to crust around the wound. "It looks worse than it is. Spray it, Russell. The immunomines should hold off any infection." Russell took up the spray again and aimed it at the wound. "As long as it isn't poisoned. What did you use on those people?"

"Two hour stunner."

"Good. Gives us time to think."

"But—" Jimson was startled. "You've got to get that out!"

"Why?" asked Ysao. "The arrowhead's somewhere in the muscle. It's a little large to just yank out. It'll keep till we get back to the ship." He touched the wood about ten centimeters above the entrance wound. "Cut it shorter, Russ."

"All right." Russell took out the knife again. "This is going to ruin this blade. You braced?" Ysao put both hands flat on the floor and pushed himself against the wall. "Jim, c'mere. Hold onto this here." Jimson put his hands on the shaft. "One hand above, the other below. Right." Russell sawed at the wood till he'd made a groove all the way around. He caught it with both hands. "Let go." Snapped it off.

Ysao gasped.

"Sorry." Russell said. He threw the piece into a corner.

"I'm all right." Ysao lowered his shoulders. "What did you bring with you?"

They looked at the body lying limp on the ground. "A Mask," Russell answered. "And we'll see what else." He knelt beside the figure, feeling around the head, and lifted off the Mask. Jimson took it from him. It was rose pink, smooth as glass; a thin shell, with two flexible metal bands fastening to the sides and curving round the back. The Mask was serene, sexless, ageless. The face on the floor glared angrily at them. Dark eyes looked first at Jimson, and then at Russell. Black hair. Small, high-cheekboned face. Breasts heaving beneath a thin white tunic. Russell grinned at the spate of words. "I don't think that needs a translation," he said. "She doesn't like us."

"She really doesn't," agreed Ysao. Then he barked, "Pirate, look out!"

Russell whirled. A weapon? Jimson thought. Then agony drilled into his head. He couldn't breathe. He fell. Then, suddenly as it had come, the mental invasion was gone, leaving him retching and trying to grip the stones of the floor.

Chapter 11

With effort, he brought his stomach under control. An arm round his shoulders helped; he let Russell prop him against the wall. "Feel all right?"

"I've felt better—and worse." His side hurt from the fall. "What the hell was that?"

"Can't you guess?" said Ysao. "She's a telepath." Jimson looked at the girl, lying limp again on the floor.

"Ysao felt it coming—when he yelled, I did, too. Got my shield up, but I had to knock her unconscious to stop her." Russell rubbed his head as if it ached. "She's strong."

"But untrained," said Ysao. "Watch it, Pirate, she's coming to."

"I'm not taking any chances," Russell said. He reached her in two long strides, wrapped one hand around a slight wrist, and levered up between the girl's shoulder blades. Her body bent like a drawn bow, back arching against Russell's knee. "She can't do much if she's in pain."

"Let up a bit, Pirate," Ysao said. His face was twisting; with his own hurt or with the girl's? Jimson wondered. "If you hurt her too much, you block me from her too."

"Can you get through to her?"

"I think so."

Russell eased the arm. "Ask her what her name is."

Ysao relayed: "She won't tell you. She's afraid that you'll use it against her in some fashion."

"Does she believe in magic?"

"Something like that. I think she thinks we are magicians."

"That should help. I don't care if she tells me her real name or not. I just want something to call her."

Ysao looked at the girl. "Ast will do," he said.

"Ask her where she lives."

Jimson could see the girl's face; it was tight-lipped and defiant.

"She doesn't understand the question. She doesn't like this kind of communication at all. Telepathy is a sacred thing to her, not to be used casually. I think she feels that she's committing an offense."

Russell scowled down at her. "Can you suggest anything else? Sign language? Pictures? Jimson brought a sketchbook." He was clearly not serious. "Damn De Vala for getting us into this."

"De Vala?" Despite the armlock, Ast was trying to twist around in Russell's grasp to look at him. She spoke—a long string of intent words, clearly a question. The name De Vala came into it often, with an odd inflection and without the break, so that it became one word: Devala. Devala.

"What the hell—how does she know that name?" Russell squinted. "Come to think of it, she looks like him. Same build, same color skin, same eyes...."

Ysao growled. Ast jumped. "82 Eridani— something there! Why can't I remember?"

"She knows the name," Russell said. "There must be a connection somewhere." He looked around. "I don't like it in here. I wonder where the hell her people are, and what they're doing."

"Waiting just outside the door?" suggested Jimson.

"Ysao, are they?"

"No," said Ysao. "They've withdrawn outside the building."

"Maybe they've found the bubble. I wish them joy trying to get into it, that'll keep them busy for quite a while."

"There might be a back way in," Jimson said. There was clearly no other door, but there might be a secret passage, a trapdoor, a roof entrance.... "They could break in through the skylights."

"They have to get up there first," Russell said. But he was evidently thinking along the same lines. "Shit." He stood up, leaving the girl free, and paced. "Well, we can call the ship, take the Mask we have, and run." Ast went scrambling away from him, rolling upright. Jimson quickly pushed himself up and stood between her and the bolted door. She glared at him.

"We could do that," said Ysao.

"But—"

"But?"

"But I want to know how she knows the name De Vala," said Russell.

Ysao nodded. "I have an idea. There's a skill we teach at Psi Center. Call it language-patterning. A trained telepath can pick up languages from other minds the way you'd pick up a rock. If she's willing, Ast should have no trouble learning our language straight from my mind."

"You're willing to let her do that? Can't she just take you over—control you?"

"No. I can block her out the minute she tries anything unpleasant."

Russell said, "If she does that, I will get very unpleasant. Make that clear. But try it, if you must."

Ysao looked at Ast, where she stood poised and braced against the wall. It was clear she didn't like the telepathic touch. Her face twisted in distress, and she shook her head. But she walked to Ysao and sat down beside him, cross-legged, facing him, taking care not to joggle the wounded leg. A thick dusty sunbeam fell across her head, lighting black curls, white cloth, and fine-grained tan skin. What a model she'd make! Jimson thought.

She and Ysao were both so intent that they might have been transported to another world. Jimson wondered what telepathic touch was like for another telepath. He knew that it could not be the same for Ast as it was for him, where all but the gentlest contact irritated the nervous system beyond bearing. Ysao knew how to do it. Ast's face was remarkably calm. But Ysao was breathing harshly. Suddenly his eyes closed; his head lolled to one side. Russell sprang to him. Ysao's eyes opened. "I'm all right," he said.

"Water?" Russell reached into his pack for a water bottle. Ast's small hand came up to guide it to Ysao's lips. "Thanks," the giant said. He took the pack from Russell and hunted in it for a food bar. "I'm all right," he said again. "Ast, I am Ysao. That man by the door is Jimson. This is Russell, our chief."

Ast looked at Russell. Puzzling out the sounds of the unfamiliar language, she said, "Why have you come to steal our Masks?"

* * *

She had no trouble comprehending Russell's explanation. "I have never heard of thieves working for any but themselves," she said, "but I suppose that this might be so. But you must come from a far country indeed, not to know. Our Masks are not things to be stolen and sold at a thieves' market like beads. They are the voices of the Gods to our people. You must know that. You spoke the name of Devala."

"We do not know," said Ysao. "Tell us."

"It was Devala who made the Masks, before he went to live among the stars." Her voice took on priestly authority. "He was our ruler, our king. That is why we have no kings, now. He was very great. When he grew weary of ruling over such children as we seemed to him to be, he left us, with wives and children and all his kin, to live among the stars. They flew away on roaring dragons, our history tells us. But before Devala left, he gave us Law, so that we might remain human, and not become as beasts, and he made for us the Masks, so that the Gods might speak to us through them. Devala, they say, spoke face to face with the Gods. But we cannot. The Speaker must wear a Mask and speak through it to the tribes when there is dispute. Without the Masks there can be no Judgment. If you take the Masks, then our Gods will no longer speak to us!"

Ysao asked, "Is there dispute now in the tribes?"

"Yes. There is dispute between Athou and Rahid. Rahid is chief. Athou disputes with him—but it is sham. He wishes Rahid's power, that is all. The Gods know his mind."

"Tell us about the ritual," Ysao said.

"They must walk across the desert to the temple— that is the first test. Then they fast for a day, and do not sleep for a night. The voice of the God then speaks to them through the mouth of the Speaker."

"That is you," Ysao said.

"I have been Speaker for three years. It is a hard thing to do, and I think this will be my last year; I have grown too old. Already there are children in the tribe who can hear minds more strongly than I can. I will choose one of them to succeed me, as I was chosen, and I will be a teacher, and live with the old women, and learn the healing arts from them. So our Law requires. You—you will go now, won't you? And say to your Masters that you could not find the Masks? Or that a greater magic than theirs kept you from stealing?"

"Who do you think our masters are?" Russell asked.

"I do not know. But they say that in the north live magicians, who can make rain at will, and imprison the winds in great caves, letting them out only when they choose. I think they must have sent you. Else how could you have come across the desert?"

"How do you know that we ourselves are not magicians?"

"Magicians would not be hurt by our arrows," said the girl. "And—" she looked at Russell—"magicians would not need to twist my arm."

Russell said: "You are right. We are not magicians. We are only thieves, who will be well paid for stealing from you your Masks." He laid a hand on the beautiful carven face glowing against the dusty floor.

"But you can't!"

Russell reached for his pack and found the communicator. "Jim, use the foam on that Mask." Jimson, reluctantly, rummaged in his pack till he found the can of foam.

"What are you doing?" Ast asked.

"Leaving," said Russell. He was holding the stun pistol in one hand and the communicator in the other. "Leiko, this is Russell."

"Coming in clear, Captain," her voice said. Ast gazed with wonder at the little machine.

"We've encountered some opposition and we need a little muscle," Russell said. "Bring the ship down."

Ast was looking at the Mask. "Let me hold it," she whispered to Jimson, piteously. She picked it from his hands gently and with great care, and held it in front of her eyes.

Ysao shouted. Too late. Jimson felt the splitting pain of telepathic assault—many times stronger than it had been before. He remembered the brief lesson on board the ship, and tried to block, but the pain was paralyzing. Deep in memory, he heard Raina Ramoz:
They can kill you if they stay in too long at that depth.

All coherence fled.

Chapter 12

Jimson woke to a grinding headache, the taste of dust on his lips, and in his ears a whisper of sound that went on and on, with steady ferocity. He tried to move. It hurt. His wrists and arms were tied together behind him; his ankles too. And it was dark, darker than simple night, darker than the Hype. Where was he? He was lying face down on cold stone. His ribs and jaw hurt. He twisted his torso to turn over on his back, painfully. If something was going to happen to him, he wanted at least to see it coming.